


In Hora Mortis Nostrae

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY DEATH FICS, Gen, Major character death - Freeform, deathbed confessions, seriously this is terribly sad and I don't even know what's wrong with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 02:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20166646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: "John wants to see you. Today, can you manage it?"Something heavy squeezed Roger's chest. "Why didn't he call me himself?" he asked, even though he feared he already knew the answer.Or, the deathbed fic absolutely no one asked for.





	In Hora Mortis Nostrae

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fifth? sixth? iteration of this story. I kept setting it aside and trying to write other things, but this very sad plot bunny would not let me be.
> 
> The character of Johnnie is entirely fictional. I know nothing about John's grandchildren and wish to keep it that way. His description is based on bb Joe Mazzello in "Radio Flyer."
> 
> Again, if you think that an extremely sad fictional situation might upset you, please close this story and read something else instead. Be careful with yourself!

Time, years, and absence were playing tricks with Roger's ears.

"Who?" he bellowed into the phone. The caller had identified herself, but he couldn't believe it. Surely he must have heard wrong. Surely she wasn't...

Then she spoke again.

"Roger, it's Veronica. Veronica Deacon."

Bullshit. He'd heard neither hide nor hair from any Deacons except the two youngest sons since...since a time he couldn't recall.

He inhaled sharply. "If this is a hoax, then it's an especially cruel one," he snapped.

There was silence on the other end, then Roger heard a story he'd nearly forgotten. "The first time Dom left you alone with Felix, you had to change his diaper. His diarrhea was so bad, and you threw up so hard, that you begged me to come over and I ended up having to clean up after you both."

Oh, God.

"Veronica? I'm so sorry, I thought—"

"It's okay. Just listen, please." Veronica paused, and Roger heard a hitch in her voice when she spoke again. "John wants to see you. Today, can you manage it?"

Something heavy squeezed Roger's chest. "Why didn't he call me himself?" he asked, even though he feared he already knew the answer.

"He's been on hospice for three weeks. He's had lung cancer for a couple of years, and now it's metastasised to most of his organs."

_"We should cut down," John had told him as they lit cigarettes from a shared match. "This shit will end up killing us one day."_

"Of course I'll come. Where?"

"Our house...just...please," was all that Veronica could get out before Roger heard her cover her mouth as she started to cry.

Roger couldn't keep the anxiety out of his voice. "I'll leave right now. Should I call Brian?"

"No!" The exclamation seemed out of place, too loud, too quick. "I'll take care of it," she added, but something else was wrong with her voice, a tone Roger couldn't quite put his finger on.

"You're not by yourself, are you?" Roger asked as he pocketed his keys and scribbled a note for Sarina. He didn't want to text, not when he had to drive, and he couldn't imagine having this conversation with her on the phone.

"The kids and grandkids are all here and Julie is on her way," Veronica said softly. "You remember the address?"

_Freddie had thrown them a housewarming party, just the band and their girls. So amazed that one of their own had an actual home, and was about to be a father. So long ago.  
_

"Seared into my memory. Tell John I'll be there soon, okay? And call me if you need me to bring...well, if you need anything."

_Just don't call me to tell me that he's already gone. I can't go through that again._

"Thank you, Roger. Just come in, no need to knock."

"I'm on my way." He ended the call, feeling dizzy and a little sick to his stomach. John had been ill, John was dying, and Roger hadn't known a thing about it. The last time they'd even exchanged e-mail, much less spoken had been...months? Years?

He drove carefully, not wanting to be pulled over or recognised. It had been decades since he'd gone to the modest little house in Putney, so he put the address into his phone and listened carefully as the detached voice directed him through London and over the Thames. The places looked hazily familiar, a dreamscape from memory.

_The night Robert was born, they had walked down this street together. They'd got drunk at the local and smoked cigars all the way home.  
_

Half a dozen cars were parked outside the house, but none of the neighbors seemed to be aware of anything amiss. Just as well, Roger thought as he pulled into a space a few houses down and locked up the car. He was nervous, mouth dry and moisture beading on his forehead.

_John had swabbed him with a tissue just before they went on at the Rainbow. "Save the sweat for the gig, Roger."  
_

Fifty years later, and he was sweating again. Roger wiped his brow on his sleeve and walked quickly up the stoop. The door was open, a low hum of voices filling the space within. Despite Veronica's instructions Roger still knocked on the half-open door, forcing a little smile when two tall men turned around to greet him.

"Mr. Taylor, thank you for coming. I'm Michael," said one of them, extending a hand. "This is Joshua."

"I should remember," Roger mumbled before he could stop himself. "I remember when you were born. We went on holidays..."  
  
_The beach, little children splashing in the waves with their fathers close at hand. He had been their Uncle Roger, their playmate and confidant._

"It's been a long time," Joshua said. His voice sounded so much like John's that Roger felt tears sting his eyes. "Come with me. He's been asking for you all morning."

Roger nodded, swallowing audibly, wishing he had a stiff drink in his hand. He followed Joshua to the bedroom where John was surrounded by Veronica and some younger children. They must be John's grandchildren, Roger realised, yet they were strangers to him.

Veronica seemed to sense his presence rather than hear him, and she turned around to beckon him closer. She had aged, of course; so had they all. There was a weighty sorrow in her eyes that made Roger fold her up in his arms and kiss her gently on the top of her head.

_She had been a vision as she walked down the aisle in her borrowed wedding gown, her hands rock-steady around the bouquet. John's hands shook so badly that he had to jam them in his pockets.  
_

A woman Roger assumed was Laura began gathering up the children, flashing Roger a tight, tearful smile as she passed.

_"It's a girl! I've got a daughter, Rog!" John had crowed into the phone, delerious with joy._

The crowd having dispersed, Roger turned around and saw John lying on the bed, his head and shoulders propped up on a mountain of pillows. Roger had a flashback to one of Freddie's final days, when his face was sunken and his flesh seemed to be melting away from his frame.

_"I can't go. I can't stand to see him like this," John had whispered, pleading with Roger to understand. Roger understood that he wanted to sock John in the jaw.  
_

A network of old surgical scars crisscrossed John's bare chest, his ribs so prominient that they seemed as if they could burst through the paper-thin flesh at any moment. A single IV line ran into his arm. There was other equipment around, but the pieces were disconnected and silent.

_One of John's basses had sat abandoned on the studio floor in Montreux, gathering dust, until Brian reverently stored it away in Queen's London warehouse._

"He's just getting pain medication now," Veronica explained in a whisper. "And oxygen when he needs it. The doctors say...well, Father Gateley is on his way to administer the Last Rites." Roger closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. No wonder Veronica had insisted he come right away. "Robert, Luke, and Cam are with Julie and the grandchildren in the garden right now, but they'll be in soon." She leaned over her husband, smiing through tears. "John, love, Roger's here to see you."

John's eyes opened, just barely, just enough for Roger to see the slivers of stormy grey-green he'd never seen in anyone else's eyes. The colour was unique to John, just as exclusive to him as his accent and the sounds he drew from his bass.

_"I can't play anymore, chaps. Since Freddie, it's just...gone..."_

"Roger," John rasped.

"I'm right here, Deacy." Roger fumbled with the chair at John's bedside, finally managing to pull it up close. He had a million questions for his long-lost friend, all destined to go unanswered.

"I need to tell you something." John lifted a paper-thin hand and, trembling, waved Veronica away. "Alone. Just a few minutes, Ronnie."

Veronica nodded, but her fingers trailed along his body slowly as she walked away, as if she were afraid that each second could be his last. "I'll stay close by. Roger, call me if you need...if anything..."

"Of course." He turned his attention back to John, forcing a smile. "What did you want to say?"

John blinked a few times and took a shallow, rattling breath that nearly shattered Roger's soul. "Missed you."

"Oh, God, Deacy, I missed you, too!"

_They'd been nicknamed the Sonic Volcano. The two youngest members of the band, thick as thieves, a rhythm section unparalleled in rock music, their unspoken communication bursting across arenas like a Roman candle.  
_

Roger shifted, leaning over to put his hand behind John's head. Where luxurious mahogany hair had once been, later cropped and greying at the temples, there was the barest fringe, and the scalp was unnaturally cold. Roger took hold of John's fingers with his free hand, rubbing his thumb over the loose, dry skin.

"I made my confession last night, just in case," John said, as casually as if he'd been discussing the weather.

Roger felt his chest constrict and wondered if he'd have a heart attack and expire right here on John's deathbed. "Okay..."

"The priest...he said I should forgive everyone." John managed a sliver of a smile.

"John, you don't have to—"

"But I do." He took in another pained breath. "Because I want to be forgiven." He turned his head fully toward Roger, and for an instant Roger could almost see the teenager who'd been the missing piece of their band. "Forgive me?"

"Deacy, there's nothing to forgive."

"No, Roger." John's voice was weak but his voice was imploring. "Do you forgive me?"

"I...Okay, yes, of course," Roger said, wincing at how inane he sounded.

"Did Freddie?"

The question punched all of the air out of Roger's body and he struggled to inhale.

He knew that Freddie had pardoned John's eleventh-hour abandonment, but Roger hadn't. He understood the terrible burden—seeing Freddie waste away was still his worst, most frequent nightmare—but he had no sympathy for John's decades-late guilt. Avoiding Freddie had been entirely John's choice, and he'd have to live with it. Or die with it.

But when push came to shove, when Roger saw the pain and fear in John's eyes, the cruel but truthful words melted before they could leave his lips. Instead he thought about Freddie, who had loved them all, who wouldn't want HIS Deacy to suffer.

"He—he loved you. He understood."

_"He should come see you," Roger had complained, but Freddie had wrapped frail fingers around his wrist._  
_"He can't, darling, he's not as strong as you or as determined as Brian. And you mustn't force him. We said our goodbyes on the album, in a way..."_

John nodded. He opened his eyes more fully, his expression curiously gentle. "So. Now I forgive you," he said.

"For...?

"Siding with Brian."

"What? There were sides?"

"On everything. Fred's concert, the album. Musical. Touring, replacing Freddie with—"

"Hang on, we didn't 'replace' Freddie—" Roger sputtered, indignant, but John kept on talking.

"Then the movie. Brian always said yes and you always followed him." The string of words made John cough. Roger found the water glass and guided the straw between John's lips so he could take a sip.

_"Stop, that's Fred's vodka, mate, he's going to kill you!"  
_

He swallowed with effort and fell back on his pillows. "You always followed him," he repeated._  
_

"John, YOU left US, you said we could go on but you wanted to step aside." Roger fought to keep his voice down, anger bubbling at the back of his throat like magma. John shook his head and let the straw fall from lips that were turning a ghastly shade of blue.

"You could've stepped aside, too, you know. Honoured Freddie." John struggled to take a breath. His eyes widened and he craned his neck, facing away on the pillow. Frantic, Roger began to jump up when he saw what John was looking at: an oxygen mask. Roger grabbed it and placed it gently over John's face, reaching behind his head to fasten the elastic and hold it secure.

John calmed instantly, his eyes fluttering shut. Just when Roger thought he might have fallen asleep, John reached for him with a hand that seemed too fragile to grasp.

_John's lean, muscled hands with prominent veins, pulling otherworldly sounds out of a simple Fender Precision while the crowd roared..._

"I'm here, I'm still here," Roger assured him, loathing the high, thready pitch of his voice. "I didn't 'follow' Brian, I just agreed with him. Freddie...near the end, he asked us both to keep his music alive. We just...fuck, Deacy, I'm just sorry if any of this hurt you. We weren't ganging up or piling on, I swear it." He paused, waiting for a sign that John understood him, and eventually John nodded. For the first time since Veronica's phone call, Roger felt the knots in his shoulders begin to undo themselves. "Did Ronnie call Brian?"

John shook his head.  
  
Roger patted his pockets, found his cell phone, and held it up. "I can do it, I can have him come right over."

"Don't." John's voice was muffled under the thick plastic of the mask. "Don't want him."

_"No guitars on this one." Brian's face had paled at the words. John only smirked and took a long drag from his cigarette.  
_

"What do you mean?"

"You loved me. Brian never did."

"No, no, that's not true!"

_On a post-concert adrenaline high, Brian had grabbed John and spun him around. "Best bass player in the world, right here! What did we do to deserve you?"  
_

"Knebworth." Frustrated, John pawed at the mask and dislodged it. "Freddie was sick. He didn't tell us, but I knew...it was the end."

"You threw your bass." Roger shuddered at the memory of that sound, far worse than the crash of his overused drum kits when he sent them plummeting over the edge of the risers. It was the sound of something beautiful being destroyed, cut off before its prime.

What a metaphor.

"You ran after me, made sure I was okay. You and Freddie."

_Freddie's face had gone white with fear. John never, never did things like this. Not his John, his pet, his rock-solid Deacy.  
_

"Well, yeah, of course we did, we were scared shitless!"  
  
"Not Brian." John closed his eyes, but not fast enough to prevent a tear from slipping down his cheek. "He went to check on my bass."

Roger couldn't stop himself, bitter, harsh laughter escaping like steam from a kettle that had been on the boil for far too long. "For fuck's sake, Deacy, THAT'S what pissed you off? That Brian went to make sure you hadn't turned your favourite bass into very expensive toothpicks?" He leaned back in the chair and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "You walked away from the band and hid for decades because Brian didn't pat you on the head?"

"Just an example," John grumbled.

"Well, here's an example of why your example sucks: Brian spent the rest of that evening with Freddie and me, terrified that you'd gone off your head. He was certain that it was his fault, that there was something he should have done to keep you safe. He was distraught; he was fucking CRYING. Did you know that?"

John blinked slowly and shook his head.

"Deacy," Roger whispered. "Let me call him. You can't let it go like this."

"Watch me."

"What're you gonna say when you see Fred? 'Oh, I had the chance to make peace with Brian but I decided not to because he pissed me off thirty years ago.' That'll go over big."

John sighed. "Low blow." His pained wheezing tore the silence and poured fire on Roger's heart. He could hear Veronica's footsteps just outside the door. The family would be back soon, and there would never be another chance to make things right between Brian and John.

"Low blows are my speciality." Roger pulled the phone out again. "Let me do this. For both of you. Brian needs to see you."

"No need." It was Veronica, cell phone held aloft. "I called right after you came in. He's on his way." She crossed the room and kissed John, then gently replaced the oxygen mask. "I know what you said, but it's for the best, sweetheart."

Never taking his eyes off of John, Roger reached out until he touched Veronica's hand. He pulled it to his lips, gently, then whispered, "Thank you, Ronnie."  
  
Shifting in the bed, groaning at even the slightest of movement, John closed his eyes. "Brian's coming? Gonna need more morphine," he mumbled.

"Just rest for a little while, Deacy." Roger leaned over and whispered into John's ear: "I'll be right outside if you need me."

"Get them to show you the room."

Roger looked blankly at Veronica, who gave him a ghost of a smile. "Michael and Robert's old room. John keeps...well, you'll see."

Confused and intrigued and brokenhearted all at once, Roger started to leave the bedroom when he heard the unmistakeable sound of Brian's clogs in the hallway. "Bri, we're in here," he called.

Brian was a wreck, his face nearly as white as his hair, his eyes dull and haunted. "Oh, Rog," was all he said as he held his arms out for a hug.

_After the godawful day that was Freddie's funeral, the three of them had stood together, arms around one another, painfully aware of the empty space where Freddie should have been._

For once, Roger felt larger and stronger than his old friend. "You're in time," he murmured. "You need...it's going to be hard. Do you want me to come with you?"

Brian nodded, rocking back and forth as he ran a hand through his hair to neaten it. Normally Roger would have chuckled at his vanity, but not now. Not when there was so little time left for the three of them.

_Was it all worth it?_

Veronica had to stand on tiptoe and stretch to place a kiss on Brian's cheek. "He'd never admit it, but he really does want to see you," she said, her voice seeming to grow smaller as her husband's life force grew fainter. "I'll gather up the children, and the older grandkids. The younger ones..." She trailed off. "I hate to ask, but could you stay? The little ones, it might be too much for them..."

"We'll look after them, Ronnie, don't worry," Roger said. "It's the least we can do."

She nodded, tears standing in her eyes. "Come on, then, before he changes his mind," she told Brian, who linked her arm through his in the kind of courtly gesture that usually made Roger grit his teeth in annoyance. The sight of Veronica gratefully leaning on his friend, taking some strength from his, warmed him even as his own heart was aching.

Only a few minutes had passed, but John already looked paler and more insubstantial. He opened his eyes and gestured feebly at Brian, who rushed to his side and took his hand.

_The night John had crashed his arm through glass, Brian wouldn't leave his side until the doctor said there was no permanent damage._

"I'm so sorry, John. I'd have come earlier, I'd have done anything...I didn't know..."

"Don't." John batted at the oxygen mask to dislodge it but his hands had grown too weak. Roger came closer and gently set it aside so John could say his piece. "Since you came...do something for me?"

"Anything," Brian assured him.

"Ronnie...the kids..." He started to cough, a bubble of bloody spittle forming in the corner of his mouth.

Roger felt a sudden chill, but he forced himself to smile. He wiped away the mess with a corner of the blanket and kept his other hand hand firmly on Brian's arm. "Don't try and talk, Deacy, it's okay," he whispered.

"We'll always be there. For the kids, the grandkids, and of course anything Ronnie needs, she can call on us. I promise you," Brian declared in a voice laden with pain. "Don't worry about anything."

Veronica stepped back into the room. "Father Gateley is here—should I send him in?"

John nodded. He tugged at Brian's hand. "So. It's goodbye."

"For the time being." Brian leaned over and kissed John's temple. "Safe travels, old friend."

John smiled at that, then he struggled to keep his eyes open for one last look at Roger. "I can...tell Freddie..."

"Yes, you can. Give him our love." Roger kissed the waxen skin of John's cheek, then replaced the oxygen mask. "We love you, Deacy."

Smiling softly, John let his eyes slide closed. Roger tugged on Brian's wrist until he let go of John's hand, then they went quietly into the hall where Veronica was waiting with the children and grandchildren. A silver-haired man in priestly garb patted each of them on the shoulder and whispered a blessing Roger couldn't quite hear.

Luke came up to them, his eyes swollen and red, and gestured up the stairs. "Second door on the left. Can you wait there?"

"Of course." Roger embraced him, feeling the sorrowful tension of Luke's hands on his back. He and Brian walked silently up the stairs, not knowing what awaited them as their friend lay dying below. Roger turned the doorknob and switched on the light.

They gasped.

What had once been a bedroom was now a museum, almost a shrine. Gold records, platinum records, and concert posters covered most of the walls. Bookcases held concert programs and copies of all their LPs.

"Did you know he had these?" Roger whispered. "I assumed he just tossed it all or put it in a warehouse someplace, but..."

"Me, too." Brian sat in one of the two overstuffed armchairs while Roger looked at all of the memorabilia.

"Oh, my God. Brian, look." Roger pulled some albums off their shelves. Freddie's albums, Roger's solo albums, his work with The Cross, all of Brian's various projects, were stored carefully in order. "He kept...someone went out and bought..."

Brian blinked rapidly. Tears shimmered on his eyelashes, making him look fragile and exhausted. He pointed at the little table between the chairs.

It was Brian's book, "Queen in 3D," the edition printed after the movie came out.

"All this time," Brian mourned. "I thought he didn't want to remember."

Roger placed the albums back in their shelves and took the other chair. He put his hand on Brian's knee and squeezed. "He's always been a cipher, Bri. You know this. But as much as his disappearing act pissed me off, I knew he still loved us."

"He loved you. He didn't want me. Veronica made the call anyway."

"We're talking about Deacy. You know how bristly he gets."

_Not anymore.  
_

"Besides," Roger continued, shoving that thought to the back of his mind, "I didn't talk him into anything. I just reminded him how pissed Freddie will be when he finds out that he'd dissed you on his deathbed." The sight of Brian's fresh tears made a lump rise in his throat. "That was supposed to fucking cheer you up."

Shaking his head, Brian dabbed at the dampness beneath his eyes. "Didn't we learn anything from Freddie? That time's too valuable to waste?"  
  
"It was what he wanted. He insisted."

"We should've done more. Insisted that he see us, not just send 'yes' or 'no' e-mails. We had all these years and we just let them slip through our fingers."

Oh, Brian. "What would you have done differently? Broken down the door?" Roger asked. "I used to hope he'd object to something we brought up, just so he'd send a slightly longer e-mail. We were so close, and then Freddie died and it all went to shit."

"_One last recording, Deacy. It's a gorgeous song. It's for Freddie."_  
_"Only if you promise to stay off of my ass afterwards."_  
_ "For how long?"_  
_ John had let out a long, painful breath. "Until we die."_

Brian buried his face in his hands. Roger stood up, his joints protesting loudly, and sat on the arm of Brian's chair. He slipped his arms around Brian, running his hands up and down the long, sinewy arms. "At least we had a chance to say goodbye."

"We did." Brian leaned against him, and Roger could see the deep lines etched into the face he knew as well as his own. "But it's a bitter mercy, Rog."

_"Don't bother coming—he's already gone."_

It was a bitter mercy, to be sure, but Roger accepted it for what it was. Forgiveness would keep their memories sweet.

_My name's John Deacon. You're looking for a bass player?  
_

He looked up and saw a tiny figure standing in the doorway.

"Uncle Luke said I'm supposed to stay up here with you." The boy seemed to be about four years old, with messy waves of chestnut hair and solemn brown eyes. "I'm Johnnie."

"I'm your Uncle Roger, and this is your Uncle Brian," Roger said gently, reaching out for the boy to take his hand. "Is anyone else coming?"

Johnnie shook his head. "Just me. I'm the youngest. They said I'm too little to watch Jesus take Grandpa to Heaven. It's not fair! It's just like when they won't let me stay up to see Father Christmas!"

Roger did a terrible job of disguising a snort as a cough, and Brian shot him a long-suffering look with raised eyebrows. "Sorry, something got stuck in my throat. Well, how about if we look after you until your parents come for you, how does that sound?"

Brightening a little, Johnnie jerked his head in an emphatic nod. Below, Roger could make out the sound the priest's dark, soothing voice.

"Through this holy anointing..."

Brian patted his lap and smiled gently as Johnnie settled in and started to chatter at him. "Were you and Grandpa really in a rock band together? That must have been ages ago!"

_They'd rung in 1975 with champagne, but John was worried about Brian's liver and made him drink ginger ale instead._

"We were, we surely were," Brian said. "You and your Grandpa look a lot alike. Want to see?"

"...may the Lord in His love and mercy..."

Brian thumbed through the book and paused on a photograph of John with short hair and a leather jacket. "See how handsome he is?"

"That's Grandpa?" Johnnie traced the outline of John's face with a plump finger.

"...help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit."

Roger sat back down on the arm of the chair, leaning over and, pointing at a photograph of Freddie and John. "There's your Grandpa with your Uncle Freddie."

"Is Uncle Freddie with Jesus now, too?"

Roger wisely allowed Brian to wrangle with the philosophy. "Uncle Freddie is with the whole universe," Brian told the boy, gracefully skirting the issue, "and he'll be very glad to see Grandpa John."

_"You're just nineteen, and you can play bass like THAT? Congratulations, darling, you're in the band. I'll take SUCH good care of you."_

"May the Lord who frees you from sin..."

Brian's hand trembled as he flipped the page. "And here we are, all four of us together."

_"Smile, darlings!"  
_

"...save you and raise you up."

Johnnie watched, eyes wide, as Brian and Roger showed him photograph after photograph, letting him experience stereo effects through the viewer. As Johnnie cooed delightedly at a photograph of the group onstage, Roger heard the low sussurence of mourning. Brian heard it too; Roger could tell by the shadow that fell over his face.

Roger rested his head on Brian's shoulder and let out a sigh. Brian leaned closer, draping one arm around Roger while holding Johnnie tenderly with the other. "This," he said quietly to Roger as Johnnie started to yawn and nestle against him. "This is what we can do for Deacy."

"We did promise," agreed Roger. He stroked the boy's soft hair. "I wonder if he'd like to play drums."

"Guitar," Brian hissed back, but he was smiling through his gritted teeth.

_They'd had the same argument the day Joshua was born. Freddie had glanced affectionately from one to the other while John ignored them all, too engrossed in the tiny face of his son.  
_

Roger knew how quickly the world could change, how a normal day could end in heartbreak. He knew that the best way he could honour his friend would be to protect his family in the vulnerable moments to come. He also knew, with the certainty of personal experience, that the Deacons would also have Brian's gentle strength to lean on as they grieved.

He wasn't a praying sort of man. He knew that the family and the priest were saying prayers over John's body, but John himself was gone and no words could make him live again. He would always be alive in Roger's memory: young and brilliant and sarcastic and troubled and loving. What a mixture. What a man.

What a privilege it had been to go on adventures with him. And now John might well be adventuring somewhere else, looking for the piece of his life that had been missing for so many years.

Roger's vision swam with a sudden flood of tears. He let himself imagine, let himself hope, that John was finding a lithe, dark-haired man whose soft eyes were shining with delight at the reunion.

"Take care of our boy, Fred," Roger whispered in a voice sweet enough to stir the heart of an angel.


End file.
